


A Stand Up Date

by TheCyborgThatCould



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Date Fail, First Date, Hawkeye puns abound, M/M, Schmoop, feel good fic, no spoilers except for the authors hilarious dating history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 20:07:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCyborgThatCould/pseuds/TheCyborgThatCould
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It was nine fifteen, and his date was supposed to meet him at eight thirty."</p><p>Or, dating as an Avenger was hard work, but he never thought that Phil would stand him up when they finally got their chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Stand Up Date

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, all the thanks to my beta Lady_Rhian for turning a running gag about the Hawkeyes into something that I could share with the world. You're the bestest, friend, for the snappy beta and the delicious cookies. You win the internets. 
> 
> All final errors and mistakes are my own, and concrit is always welcome!

The bar was crowded for a Tuesday, old men and sharp dressed women rubbing elbows with roughnecks and bar flys. It seemed a bit odd that so many people would be out on a weeknight, but in a one horse town too far from civilization to even warrant a drive-thru McDonald's, Clint wasn't sure what he expected.

Well… maybe fewer mandolins, for one.

There was an Irish band in the corner playing some jig that had the old couple next to him nodding along and tapping their feet. Seated at a two-person table, they had opted to sit side-by-side on the booth next to the wall in order to be able to hold hands while they drank glasses of the house white. They didn’t look at each other, never seemed all that engaged in conversation, but their thumbs tracked a slow path across the hand of their beloved, and the woman wore the old man’s coat around her shoulders.

It was a gentle, sweet scene, and Clint could acknowledge the beauty of it, even if he thought it was a bit unappreciated at the moment.

It was nine fifteen, and his date was supposed to meet him at eight thirty.

And ain’t that just a son of a bitch?

The bartender was sending Clint pitying looks, but until he started matching them with shots of whiskey, Clint couldn’t give two fucks. The beer was cold, the food was hot, and the Hawkeyes were thrashing the Jayhawks, fourteen to six. Everything was fine.

Who cared that the waitress had stopped making eye contact, or that it was obvious to everyone that he'd been stood up, sitting there with his pride on the floor, his best dress shirt slowly cutting off circulation in his arms, clean shaven and shoes freshly shined?

He had football.  And the Hawkeyes. And a cold pint of beer.

He was fine. Really.

But Phil was never late. Always early and unfailingly courteous, whether it was a eyes-only meeting with Fury, range time with Nat, or the bat-mitzvah for Agent Shapiro’s demonic little hell spawn, he was on time. It had taken weeks to get a date that would work for both of them. Avengers business, SHIELD missions and personal schedules meant that making time for a life, to say nothing of romance, was nearly impossible.

Surely he wouldn't stand him up now? Not with so much build up and sexual tension, long looks during debrief and not so casual touches in Phil’s office?

The Hawkeyes scored another touchdown, and Clint tipped his glass in honor.

He was fucking fine.

Really.

The final straw was the bartender finally coming through with that glass of whiskey. It was one thing to be an object of pity, entirely another to feel like a one-eyed puppy in one of those ASPCA Sarah McLaughlin commercials.

He shot the whiskey with a wink and a nod to the bartender, grabbed his jacket and hit the door. He couldn't help but laugh a bit as he walked out into the parking lot, shrugging on his coat and shaking his head. The door wasn’t even shut before he could hear the people inside talking about him.

“Fucking figures,” he thought to himself, “this is why we don’t go after nice things...” Better to have nothing than to chase after shadows and end up with no more than what you started with and a boatload of emotional constipation besides.

But hell, at least the Hawkeyes got to score tonight, even if he didn't.

Clint was almost to his truck when frantic footsteps through the parking lot had him turning to face the approaching figure, on edge and ready for a fight. He figured taking potshots at a mugger might be the only highlight of his evening, and he found himself looking forward to the confrontation.

Suddenly, from behind an overbuilt SUV, Phil emerged, suit disheveled, dirt on his face and his shoes untied.

It may have been the first time Clint had ever seen him breathless.

"There... was... a mechanical bear... and a penguin..." Phil gasped, bending over to plant his hands on his knees. "I am... so... sorry." He panted for a moment, staring at the ground before gathering himself and standing up.

When Phil finally looked up to make eye contact with Clint, he took in Clint’s appearance and his jaw dropped.

“I missed seeing you dressed like _that_ in a romantic context?” His voice was high and strangled, and he gestured with one hand to Clint’s outfit. “I am going to personally ensure that the man responsible for tonight’s robotic zoo is punished to the full extent of the law.” He stood up, straightened his jack and smoothed his tie, then added under his breath, “Or maybe just give him to Natasha…”

Clint just grinned, the stress of the last two hours melting away to be replaced by a euphoria that had more to do with the way that the top button of Phil’s shirt had come undone and less to do with the whiskey. He reached out and grabbed Phil by his tie to pull him in closer.

“Well, I can’t say much for some animatronic menagerie, but I heard the Hawkeyes are on a scoring streak tonight. How about you and me head back to my place and keep the magic going?” He smiled, more teeth than were perhaps strictly necessary, and cocked his hip in invitation.

So maybe it wasn’t Clint’s best line ever, and maybe Phil didn’t give two shits about American football, but Phil laughed high and clear in the winter night, wrapping one arm around Clint’s waist and dragging him in, nuzzling into Clint’s neck with a cold nose. Clint knew they had demons to face, and that it wouldn’t be easy to balance out their admittedly ridiculous lives, but Phil’s hair smelled like ozone and cordite, and Clint couldn’t help but breathe deep and lean into him, letting the minutia go for the moment.

“Clint,” Phil said, nipping at Clint’s neck, “if you drive and make it back to your apartment in less than fifteen minutes, I will personally escort you to my very own endzone.” His grin was wicked, and he took Clint’s hand and sprinted to Clint’s truck, their laughter ringing out behind them. The curious faces of the locals peering out of the smoky windows of the bar tracked their quick escape, and in the warm light of the bar an old couple smiled at each other from beneath their lashes, hands holding tight and feet tapping to the music.

Clint made the drive in eight minutes, and what do you know? It seemed that Phil knew a little something about football after all. 


End file.
